Unlimitations: A Message for the Week of Passover 

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Here’s a philosophical thought: limitations don’t exist in a vacuum. In other words, the concept of being limited necessitates the concept of being unlimited. In Wicked, when Elphaba and Glinda sing “together we’re unlimited,” they’re also acknowledging the limitations they face when they’re not united as a team. 

The same duality is true for Mitzrayim. The Hebrew name for Egypt, which we all heard and read at our seders, we often translate as “narrowness” or “the narrow space,” and it’s made up of the same Hebrew letters as the word meitzarim, the word for limitations. But the existence of Mitzrayim implies the existence of the opposite: the freedom of a space that is wide open, and the uncertainty that comes with it. 

The story we are commanded to tell each Passover l’chol dorotam, for all generations, is not just about leaving that narrow place. It’s about what comes next, because leaving Egypt is only the beginning. 

The Israelites step out of centuries of oppression and immediately find themselves not in freedom as we might imagine it, but in something far more disorienting: the wilderness. An open, vast, unstructured expanse. No walls, but also no clear path. No Pharaoh, but also no certainty. The narrowness and predictability of Egypt are replaced by the overwhelming wideness of the desert. And that, too, is frightening. 

The Torah reminds us that this journey is not a one-time event. Again and again, we are told that we must remember it, reenact it, live it, l’chol dorotam. At the seder table, we don’t simply recall history; we enter it. We eat the matzah, the bread of affliction, both because our ancestors did and because we, too, know something of constriction. We taste the bitterness of maror because bitterness is not confined to the past. And we recline, even if it feels aspirational, because freedom is something we are still learning how to inhabit. 

But here is the deeper truth: sometimes we get so used to the narrowness that the openness feels more dangerous. In Egypt, the Israelites knew who they were – slaves. In the desert, they must figure out who they might become. In Egypt, survival was the goal. In the desert, they are asked to build a society, to receive Torah, and to imagine a different way of being. 

The journey from narrowness to expansiveness is not smooth. It is filled with longing for what was, even when “what was” was painful. “Let us go back,” they say, because at least there, life was predictable. 

And if we’re being honest, we know that feeling too. There are moments in life when we find ourselves in tight places. And there are moments when the possibility of change, of growth, of stepping into something new feels even more terrifying than staying stuck. 

Passover does not promise that the desert will be easy; it promises that it is necessary. The seder becomes our annual rehearsal for that truth. We gather around the table – messy, multigenerational, filled with questions – and we practice telling the story of moving from constriction toward possibility. We remind ourselves that even when the path is unclear, we are not alone. That freedom is not a single moment, but a lifelong journey. That we carry the memory of narrowness not to stay trapped in it, but to recognize it, and to move through it. 

Throughout the week of Passover and l’chol dorotam, we ask: 

Where are the narrow places in our lives? Where are we being called into something wider, even if it feels uncertain? And then, gently, courageously, we take a step forward. 

May the rest of this Passover invite us not only to leave the narrow places we know, but to trust ourselves in the wilderness that follows. And may we, together, learn how to walk toward a freedom that is still unfolding. 

Repairing Together

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on March 21, 2026.

Over a period of 30 years, UCLA professor Benjamin Karney studied 1,000 newlyweds. Specifically, he studied their arguments. He put them in a room together and asked them to discuss a topic they disagreed about. Does this sound like a nightmare scenario yet? Then he would hit record on a camera and walk out of the room. After 8 minutes of fighting, Dr. Karney would take the video back to his lab for him and his colleagues to analyze. What did they look for?

Is the couple compromising? 

Are they blaming?

Are they criticizing?

Are they withdrawn?

Are they engaged?

Are they affectionate?

And after analyzing, he would invite the couple back in six months, and they’d do it all over again. Here’s what they found. Healthy fighting didn’t guarantee a fairy tale relationship that stays intact forever, but it significantly ups the chance that you’re going to be happier together.

What’s healthy fighting? And a healthy fight is where you’re not fighting about who’s right; you’re thinking of each other as a team, and you’re both curious about what you need as individuals. A good fight isn’t about who’s right; it’s about making things better for both partners.

We probably know deep down that how we respond matters just as much as what happened in the first place. And that concept is true well beyond the bounds of a relationship between two people. If only there were a guidebook that might help us apply this idea in a broader sense.

Parshat Vayikra opens the book of Leviticus with a detailed description of the sacrificial system. It’s not exactly the stuff of dinner table conversation: offerings of bulls, sheep, birds, and grain. But beneath the surface, these קורבנות (korbanot) are not about appeasing God through ritual alone. The word korban comes from the root karov, meaning “to draw close.” These offerings are about repairing distance, between ourselves and God, between ourselves and others, even within ourselves. They give structure to accountability, a path back when something has gone wrong.

The opening verse reads, “וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה / And God called to Moses…” (Leviticus 1:1). Rashi famously notes that this calling, Vayikra, is a language of affection, of closeness, used by angels. Before any instruction, before any correction, there is a call rooted in relationship.

And perhaps that’s the point. Even when we err, even when harm has been done, the Torah insists that the response begins not with punishment, but with a call toward reconnection and responsibility. It’s not about who’s right, it’s about making things better for all. Sound familiar?

But Vayikra doesn’t ignore wrongdoing; it names it clearly. There are offerings for unintentional sins, yes, but also an insistence that when harm occurs, it must be acknowledged. Protection of life and dignity is non-negotiable. We are not asked to be passive in the face of harm. Judaism has never required that of us.

And yet, the הדרך, the path, matters. Even when provoked, even when justified in our anger, the Torah calls us to respond מתוך קדושה, מתוך אחריות, with holiness and responsibility. To protect without becoming destructive ourselves. To hold firm boundaries without losing our moral center.

I say this all the time, but like so much of our Torah, this feels particularly relevant today. We know what it means to feel vulnerable, to need protection, to insist on safety. And at the same time, we must be equally clear: acts of violence, even when born of fear or ideology, that harm innocent people, are not our way. We can name wrongdoing, including the painful reality of violence perpetrated by Jews in places like the West Bank, and say with clarity: this is not who we are meant to be.

Vayikra reminds us that accountability is sacred work. That drawing close requires honesty, restraint, and a commitment to חיים, to life.

So what does this ask of us?

To be a people who protect, fiercely and unapologetically, the safety and dignity of Jewish life. And also to be a people who remember that כוח, power, is not a license to harm, but a responsibility to act with integrity.

This week, when you feel that moment of provocation, big or small, pause. Hear the quiet vayikra, the call to respond not just from instinct, but from your deepest values.

Because the truest offering we can bring today is not from the herd or the field, but from the heart: a choice to act with courage, with restraint, and with a commitment to peace, even when it’s hardest.

That is how we draw close.

Shiny Happy Idols

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on March 6, 2026.

 Every generation likes to think that idolatry is a practice we outgrew in biblical times. After all, most of us are not melting down jewelry and building golden statues in our living rooms. Yet idolatry doesn’t require physical graven images at all. It’s about what happens when we place something—or someone—beyond accountability. 

Just keep an eye on current events, and you’ll see what happens whenever leaders are treated as untouchable simply because enough people agree with them. When loyalty to ideology becomes so strong that we excuse wrongdoing, justify cruelty, or look away from corruption, we begin to elevate human beings to a place that belongs only to God. It’s tempting, isn’t it? When someone represents what we care about, we want them to succeed. But Torah asks us to be careful about what we are really worshipping. 

Parshat Ki Tissa contains one of the most dramatic episodes in the Torah: the sin of the Golden Calf. While Moses is on Mount Sinai receiving the commandments, the people grow anxious. They ask Aaron to make them a god to lead them. Aaron gathers their gold, fashions the calf, and the people proclaim, “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt.” 

When Moses descends the mountain and sees the people dancing around the idol, he shatters the tablets in anger. The covenant itself is literally and figuratively broken. Yet the story does not end there. Moses confronts the people, calls them back to accountability, and ultimately returns to the mountain to renew the covenant. 

The medieval commentator Ramban (you may also know him by his Greek-influenced name Nachmanides) suggests that the people were not trying to reject God outright. They were searching for something visible to lead them in Moses’s absence. Their mistake was not simply making something shiny—it was transferring all the authority and trust they had placed in God to something they could control. 

That impulse is alive and well today. Idolatry often looks like placing our hopes entirely in charismatic leaders, cultural figures, or even political movements themselves. When we abandon trust and reason for the shiny object or shiny person, we risk excusing behavior we would condemn in anyone else. In those moments, we stop asking moral questions. And that is when leadership becomes a golden calf. 

Torah insists that no human being stands above the law—not kings, not prophets, not leaders. The challenge of Ki Tissa is not simply to avoid idols made of gold. It is to resist the quieter forms of idolatry that appear in our own lives. 

We can admire people. We can support causes passionately. But Judaism demands something more: that we remain morally awake. To hold even those we agree with to the standards of justice, humility, and accountability. Because the moment we stop asking questions, the moment loyalty replaces conscience, we risk dancing around a golden calf of our own making. And the Torah reminds us again and again that our highest loyalty must always be to tzedek/justice and to the God who demands it. 

The Thing About Remembering

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 28, 2026.

Have you ever gone shopping and forgotten where you parked? How often do you walk into a room and can’t quite remember what you came in for? Forgetfulness can be harmless. Sometimes it’s just a sign of distraction, and it’s easy to get distracted. But there’s another kind of forgetting that is far more consequential: forgetting who we are, what we stand for, and what we owe one another. Judaism understands this deeply, because memory, in our tradition, is not merely passive nostalgia; it is moral responsibility. This Shabbat brings that truth into sharp focus as Parshat Tetzaveh coincides with Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of remembering. 

Parshat Tetzaveh focuses heavily on ritual details like the ner tamid, the eternal flame that must burn continually, and especially the elaborate priestly garments worn by Aaron and his descendants. The Torah describes the ephod, the breastplate set with twelve stones, the robe adorned with bells and pomegranates. One verse stands out in particular: Aaron is instructed to carry the names of the children of Israel engraved on the breastplate “over his heart” whenever he enters the sanctuary. Medieval commentators note that this was not decorative symbolism, but a theological statement. Leadership means holding the people close, remembering them individually, carrying their stories and needs constantly before God. 

That message resonates powerfully with Shabbat Zachor, when we are commanded to remember what Amalek did to us: attacking the vulnerable, the stragglers, those least protected. We read this reminder on Shabbat Zachor because Jewish tradition links Amalek directly to the Purim story, where Haman, described as an Agagite, emerges as Amalek’s spiritual descendant. Amalek represents a world where people are reduced to targets, where memory and moral responsibility disappear. The priestly breastplate, by contrast, insists that every tribe, every name, matters. 

But interestingly, do you know whose name is left out of this parshah? Moses. Moses’s name is strikingly absent from this entire Torah portion of Tetzaveh. There’s a parallel with Purim here too, because which name doesn’t appear in the Megillah? God. God is never explicitly mentioned in the Book of Esther. Yet, in each case, hiddenness does not mean absence. Redemption unfolds through human courage, solidarity, and a refusal to forget one another. The holiday reminds us that even when divine presence feels obscured, our responsibility to remember and act with care remains. 

The call of this Shabbat, then, is simple, but critical. Remember who we are. Carry people in our hearts, especially those on the margins. Refuse indifference. Yes, we have the sacred garments and ritual spaces mentioned this week, but those are not the only paths to holiness. Holiness is found in the daily act of remembering fellow humans with dignity and purpose. And in that remembering, again and again, we diminish the power of Amalek and move closer to the world Purim dares us to imagine and to celebrate.

Holiness To Go

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 21, 2026.

If you’ve ever been part of a building project, a synagogue renovation, a school fundraiser, or even organizing a big family event, you know it’s rarely about the bricks or logistics alone. It’s about trust. It’s about a shared purpose. The quiet question underneath it all is, do we really believe in this enough to build it together? When the world feels fractured by ongoing wars and geopolitical instability, that question feels especially urgent. What does it mean to build something sacred together when the world around us often feels broken or unsettled? 

Parshat Terumah marks a turning point in the Torah. After revelation at Sinai, God invites the Israelites to create a physical space for holiness, the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary. The people are asked to bring gifts: gold, silver, fabrics, acacia wood, oil, and spices. These aren’t taxes or other obligations exactly; they’re offerings of the heart. The detailed instructions that follow are less about architecture than about relationship and a community partnering with God to make space for presence. 

One commentary I always find striking comes from the Ramban (Nachmanides), who teaches that the Mishkan was essentially a continuation of Sinai, a way to carry revelation with them wherever they traveled. Holiness wasn’t meant to stay on the mountain; it had to be built into daily life. 

And notice how it happens: collectively. No single person could build the Mishkan. The Torah’s repeated emphasis on contributions reminds us that sacred community emerges not from uniformity, but from shared commitment. Each person brought what they could. That message resonates now. It feels a little too easy to be tempted toward despair, but the Torah quietly insists that building together is itself a spiritual act. Community doesn’t eliminate the world’s pain, but it gives us the strength to face it without losing hope. 

So, our invitation in Terumah is both simple and challenging. Keep building. Build community even when the world feels unstable. Show up for one another. Offer what you can through your time, kindness, presence, resources, and prayer. Why? Because none of us carries the whole weight alone. 

The Mishkan was never just a structure. It was a declaration that even in uncertain times, we choose connection over fragmentation, purpose over fear, sacred partnership over going it alone. May we continue to build spaces, in our congregation, our homes, and our world, where holiness can dwell among us.